


Ugly

by Servetolive



Category: KMFDM (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dark, Drug Use, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Esteem Issues, Shame, Spanking, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Servetolive/pseuds/Servetolive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Been a long time since anyone called Sascha "ugly" to his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ugly

**Author's Note:**

> A friend asked me to write some porn of Sascha being excited by Esch’s onstage persona, and thereafter being dominated/slapped around by him. I’m happy to oblige a fellow pervert, so here it is. Glad to practice PWP, a weak point of mine, especially on Sascha… Also, be advised that this is a draft, it is not yet finished. :)
> 
> Edit: it's as finished as it'll ever be

_Dallas, 1991._

It’s not like Sascha was unaccustomed to doing a full set with cottonmouth and pants full of hard dick, but he noticed that he was lagging on every stroke of his set; and if he noticed it, he was certain others noticed as well.

_Achtung._

There were more than a few reasons Sascha preferred to perform with his eyes obscured and as many clothes on as possible.  He was nothing like Esch—unashamed of his wiry form, completely involved and amused by the horror in his nakedness. From behind his shades, Sascha attempted to multitask as he watched his friend dominate their shared arena, sliding his tongue around the metal grating of the microphone and using all of the muscles in his body to recreate the sound of their music.

_Achtung._

The obligatory partially-derobed girl made her way on stage, and Sascha failed to keep his eyes in focus on the crowd and his lips from splitting into an expectant smile. He couldn’t help it.  Nick helped the girl onstage by the roots of her hair and flipped her around so that she was exposed to the crowd.

_Achtung._

_Exposed_ took on a new meaning as Nick, still screaming into the microphone over her shoulder, reached down the front of her mini-skirt and flipped it up to reveal that she had thrown her panties onto the stage earlier.

_Achtung._

As he and Nick dragged out the first syllable of the word, Sascha watched as Nick matched the tempo of his growl with his hand, as it slid down the girl’s thigh and around her pubic area, as if to frame it, to give his audience an order.  He felt his skin crawl in the same area as he drew his arm across his chest to crash into a high-hat.

_Du stinkst, du sow._

Appropriately, Esch shoved her harshly back into the crowd, and they consumed her.  Sascha leaned his head back from the microphone: partially to give himself momentum with the next stroke, and partially to shield his maniacal laughter.

\--

It was a good thing that they had booked the entire floor, because Sascha could hear Esch and the girl—complete with wet sounds of skin slamming against skin—all the way down the hall.

Esch had her on all fours—the same girl from the stage, but naked save for a miniskirt no shorter than his—with his right hand pressed hard against her neck, burying her face into the pillows as he railed into her.

Sascha ignored her and her muffled screams.  Casually taking pulls from a bottle in hand and one leg crossed behind the other, he leaned against the wall and enjoyed watching the veins pulsing on Esch’s bald head and his trademark sneer that had been captured not only in the lens of journalists, but in his own mind through the years.

Esch did not stop once he realized that he had an audience.  He and Sascha exchanged a long look as he continued fucking the girl into the mattress, thin lips still upturned.

“What?” He said, his voice unshaken by the movement of his hips.

“ _Willst du etwas, haesserlicher?”_

 _You want something, ugly?_  
  
The last word jarred him, although he did not show it outwardly. It had been a long time since someone had called Sascha “ugly” to his face.  With his cock heavy in his pants, he wondered if Nick had meant it; if, unlike what the droves of sweaty girls throwing themselves at him said, he was at a genuine disadvantage with his long face and thick lips, his waifishness and lack of stage fortitude.

Or, if there was something desirable and pretty between the imperfect lines of his angles and strange features; if “ugly” was just a by-word for a look that had no definition: something that was solely and uniquely his. His to give to Esch to smear and crush underfoot, if he wanted.

Sascha took another drink from the bottle before giving it a light toss—still half full—onto the ground in front of him. It leaked onto the floor. The girl, now aware that she and Esch were not alone, struggled to pull her head up from underneath Esch’s hand and her mess of brown hair to look at Sascha.

As soon as she did, Esch shoved her face forward again, and she went into the sheets with a surprised grunt. Esch pulled out of her, his dick disappearing beneath the folds of his skirt and he slapped her hard upside the thigh facing Sascha so that she could move out of the way.  Like a dog, she obeyed and rolled off of the bed and onto the armchair in the corner to suck on the tip of her thumb, and waited. 

“Hey, _ugly_ ,” Esch said, breathing heavily, sweat rolling off of his shoulders and forearms as he approached Sascha. “You heard me?”

“Yeah,” Sascha responded in German. He turned his head to the side and spat on the floor. “I heard you.”

“You want something.”

They were close enough to be touching then, and Sascha instinctively let one leg fall behind him.  He was still wearing glasses, and a thick strand of black fell between his too-close-together eyes before Esch ordered—

“Take those fucking things off.”

He hesitated, but Sascha did as he was told, and then let the aviators fall to the ground by his feet. He lifted his head up and allowed Esch to take him in, for what he was worth.

Esch’s sneer turned into a toothy smile, as if he were observing a joke; something that knew that it was flawed.  He took Sascha by surprise when he reached up suddenly and pinched the sides of Sascha’s cheeks hard.  Sascha’s hands immediately came up to pull down on Esch’s forearms in defense, but Esch simply hacked loudly and spat a large gob of saliva directly into Sascha’s face and around his mouth.

Sascha buried the instinct to try and kill his bandmate, not only because he knew that he would lose, but because he was a creature of rationality, and the rush of anger and shame opposite his adrenaline and arousal was more interesting to him than seeing Esch bloodied.

Any anger he had subsided when Esch dragged his tongue up Sascha’s sticky mouth and nose. He closed his eyes against it, leaning into it.

“Hey, bitch,” Esch called over his shoulder to the girl.  She sat up off the chair immediately. Esch pulled Sascha into the room by his elbow.

“Get a mainline ready for Sascha. He has a death wish.”

\--

Whatever it was the girl was pulling into the syringe—he sort of hoped it was speed—Sascha was helpless to consider as he sat on the ground, leaning up against the bed, with Esch’s tongue exploring his mouth, poking at metal caps, biting the insides of his cheeks. He was grateful when Esch pulled away to take the needle from her. Sascha had already begun pumping blood into his veins, opening and closing his fists, waiting for Esch to touch him again.

He ripped Sascha’s right sleeve open as he pulled it up.

“Ready, _ugly_?” Esch held the needle up in full view as he squeezed the air out of it.

“No,” Sascha said, as he pulled himself up to attention. He was quite serious too. “Nick, that’s too fucking much.”

Nick snorted in his face. He then pressed his knee into Sascha’s groin, gently nudging the erection there and held him still with his other hand on the opposite shoulder as the needle came down into the crease of Sascha’s elbow.

He braced himself against the bed frame as the metal slid up and into his skin.  Neither he nor Esch missed the analogous sensation. Esch even hissed as it went in, like it was his own.

He heard himself moan out loud; felt himself twitching against Esch’s knee.  Esch nudged back in acknowledgement, looking back and forth between the emptying syringe and Sascha’s face with delight as if “ugly” took on several beautifying metamorphoses.

“Oh, God…” He breathed as Esch withdrew.

It _was_ speed.  It came down on Sascha like a headache, then a fever, then a cold blast of air, then he could feel every nerve in his body electrified, his lips numb. His head fell back against the duvet and he could barely register the popping sensation of Nick ripping his shirt open to expose his chest, smooth and sticky from a dried layer of sweat and smoke from their show, or the snapping of his necklace as Esch tore that away too, and roamed the darker plains of Sascha’s torso.  His nails left lovely red streaks in the wake of his fingers. Sascha’s own muscles quivered beneath the pain.

His eyes opened just in time to see Esch lift the hem of his skirt and slide his cock into one hand, while the other reached forward for Sascha’s hair.

Dizzy and breathing heavily, Sascha attempted to roll his head out of the way.

 _No,_ he heard himself say, from a far away place. He dodged Esch’s open hand again. _Wait._

Nick responded by taking such a firm hold of the roots on the back of Sascha’s head that it seized the whole of his body, his teeth jamming together. He pulled Sascha up on his knees and _made_ him look at him.

Nick gazed down his nose at his frontman, several years older than him, but with nothing to show for it, save for a peculiar smugness that wasn’t always so, and a misguided desire to be something static and formidable.  His pupils oscillated in the whites of his eyes, and the both of them felt—even if for a split second—that they were on the exact same frequency; that if nobody else knew it, _they_ knew, in that moment, that Sascha was exactly where he wanted to be.

_You want to be pretty again?_

Sascha allowed Esch to pull him up and turn him around.  He leaned forward onto the bed as Esch pulled his pants down over his hips without unbuckling them, scraping skin all the way.  They landed around his ankles with his boots still on, effectively trapping him. He felt his stomach cave in from anticipation as the next thing he felt was Esch tearing his shirt with his bare hands down the center of his back and run one hand up the center of his spine.

The girl looked on from her perch on the chair, he legs wide open, toying innocently with her feet.  Sascha lowered his head between his shoulder blades and then arched his back with a hiss as Nick raked his fingers in four swollen lines down his back to match his work on the front.

_Do you?_

Sascha thought of the last occasion that he was in this position in front of another male, many years ago when he was younger, fairer, and did what he liked; less ruined by juxtapositions of what others might think make a man, less marred by his own perception of what he saw in the mirror.

Sascha’s head snapped up as the back of Esch’s hand struck across the top of his backside, leaving a stinging path behind it.

_Do you?_

He struck him again, across the opposite way.  By then, Sascha was heaving in through his nose, out through his mouth, eyes closed, refusing to look anywhere but the tired floral pattern on the ruffled comforter beneath him and willing himself not to be torn apart by whatever dignity he was pointlessly hanging onto and the blood swirling beneath his flesh.

Esch pulled Sascha back so that he was flush with his chest, his head leaning back against Nick’s shoulder as the latter probed him with the blunt tip of his cock.

One sweaty palm crept up the side of Sascha’s face and into his hair.

_Tell me, Sascha._

Sascha moaned into Esch’s fingers as they moved across his lips and then down his neck, the gap between them closing, the space inside of him stretching.

“Yes,” he managed to gasp into Esch’s hand. He heard Nick snap his fingers, and the girl was up out of her seat and underneath Sascha’s balls soon enough.

The girl’s wet mouth was a distraction, as Esch had meant it to be, so that he could be assaulted on an extra front as Esch finished working his way inside of Sascha, who had to remember not to clench and to relax.

_Say it again._

“Fuck, God, I want it…” Sascha’s voice came out in a low, half-whine that he loathed to hear.  He wished he could kick the girl away; her tongue sent knives through his cock and all the way up to the ear next to Esch’s lips.

He could feel— _taste_ even, at this point—Esch’s smirk and the chuckle that accompanied it. It was the last thing that he was sure he heard from Esch before he forced himself the rest of the way into Sascha.

_I’ll make you pretty again, slut._

Sascha fell forward onto his forearms as Esch fucked him.  He wondered—with his cock finally hardening again in the girl’s mouth—what the experience would be like for someone else to come in and observe him the same way he had earlier seen Esch with his groupie, what Guenther or Durante or anyone else might think of Sascha if he saw him in the same light as the whore underneath the both of them, Nick’s hands roaming across Sascha’s back and sides only to strike against as ass or thighs, hard enough to leave welts.

He felt Esch in his stomach, pumping alongside the dope in his blood, pounding in his ears.  Soon, he forgot about the girl; she was as good as gone, there was just Esch, his fingers now roaming across his face, sliding the salty pads of his fingers into Sascha’s mouth and across his clenched teeth, and Sascha, the pain, the burn, his skin wet and olive and marked—

Sascha, eyes shut, heard the sound of his own voice in his ears again, another moan, but forced through his half-closed lips and filtered through Esch’s fingers.

“Come on,” Esch growled, then hanging onto Sascha by nothing save for his face.

_Come on, pretty boy_

Another strike across his ass as he fucked him harder.  Sascha nearly cried out.

Esch suddenly stopped, reached around and shoved the girl back onto the bed in front of Sascha and took over from where her mouth had left off, tightening his index finger and thumb into a tight ring around Sascha’s swollen cock, stroking faster than he could fuck.

Sascha leaned back against Nick, tearing at his bandmate’s naked thighs as he tried to fight back another scream. 

He failed. 

Nick drank in every last drop of Sascha’s orgasm, every manner in which his face contorted: how his straight brow furrowed deeply, how his lips parted to show teeth, how his tongue lay in his mouth as his older friend spilled over his hand and onto the belly of the girl, a more suitable fixture and pattern than the ugly sheets.

_Pretty boy_

Even Sascha had to admit, as he shivered in Esch’s hand, that his voice had lost its offensiveness as he came.

Nick gave him one last, long pull, milking the final drop onto the girl, who behaved and kept still.  Exhausted, Sascha finally managed to have a look at her—attractive, but nothing special—before Esch pressed down on his back and flipped him over, so that he lie right next to her, almost in a mirrored position.

For the final time that night, Nick lifted his skirt and took himself in his hand.  He looked down at the girl, intently as he stroked himself to completion, but in the end knelt down between Sascha’s legs and came on _his_ stomach, never changing his facial expression; never losing himself to his senses.

Sascha closed his eyes.


End file.
